


Here We Go A'Wassailing

by TheMelancholyVegetable



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Boys Kissing, Christmas Caroling, Holidays, M/M, Patrick Brewer is Gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:02:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27753529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMelancholyVegetable/pseuds/TheMelancholyVegetable
Summary: Patrick is miserable, so Ray talks him into wassailing with the Jazzagals to cheer him up. The group's last stop is the Roses' rooms at the motel, where a little holiday party leads to a marked improvement in Patrick's mood.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 32
Kudos: 153
Collections: Schitt's Creek: Frozen Over (2020)





	Here We Go A'Wassailing

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [SCFrozenOver2020](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/SCFrozenOver2020) collection. 



> [David voice] "Would we call this M, or T+?" I don't know, but I figure it's better to err on the side of caution. Only the first half is beta'ed. All mistakes are mine.
> 
> Thank you to _redacted_ for the (half) beta and the encouragement.
> 
> **Prompt:**
> 
> Patrick makes his escape to Schitt's Creek in early December. Ray recruits him to join the roving co-ed caroling groups organized by Jocelyn and the Jazzagals to get him out of his funk.
> 
> He doesn't get why they are stopping at the motel until a certain door opens and he sees the most stunning fellow scrooge (if his disapproving eyebrows are to be believed) in black and white, taking Patrick's breath away and confirming some of the reason why he ran away from his old life. 
> 
> Suddenly the holiday season is looking much more festive and jolly...

“Patrick? Did you hear what I said?”

Patrick shakes himself out of his daze and focuses on Ray, beaming at him from across the breakfast table. “Sorry, Ray. I really don’t think I’m up to caroling right now,” Patrick demurs.

Ray’s face falls momentarily, but he quickly perks back up. “But, Patrick, we aren’t going caroling. We’re going wassailing!” Ray clarifies, as if Patrick should know the difference.

His face must convey his confusion, because Ray barrels on. “Wassailing, Patrick. We carry the wassail bowl around with us, all over town, and sing door-to-door. Do you know, our wassail bowl dates back to the 1750s, when Roland’s great-great-great-, well, I don’t know how many greats, but his ancestor carved the bowl himself, and we’ve been using it ever since!”

Patrick, who has always had a penchant for history, has to admit that this is kind of cool. But still, “Ray, that’s really cool about the bowl, but I’m just not in the Christmas spirit this year, y’know?”

This time, when Ray’s face falls, it stays that way. They finish their breakfast in silence. Patrick clears the table and does the dishes as Ray goes upstairs to get ready for his day. It’s a Saturday, so Patrick has the day off, which he plans to spend wallowing in his small bedroom, just as he has every Saturday since he arrived in Schitt’s Creek a month ago.

During the week, life is easy. He’s kept busy enough helping with Ray’s various businesses that he’s not left with much time to dwell on things. He has even picked up a couple of consulting jobs of his own, which he feels pretty good about, all things considered. But the weekends…. Well, the weekends are hard. Patrick knows he should find something to do with his free time besides stare at the four flowered walls of his room, but so far he hasn’t been able to. Instead, he spends hours at a time sitting on his tacky pink bed. When he’s not escaping reality with a horror novel, he’s thinking about whether or not he should text Rachel, or his mom, or his cousins.

At the moment, it’s the latter. As he thinks, he tosses an old baseball gently into the air and catches it, over and over, trying to soothe himself with the repetitive rhythm of it. He could go home and apologize and go back to his old life. After all, he hasn’t said it out loud yet - the reason he left - so no one would know but him.

But he would know. He would know, and he’d be lying to everyone around him, and he’d go back to being miserable and having to pretend everything was okay.

So he goes through the whole thing in his head, yet again. Pulling together the loose pieces of his plot into a coherent, logical storyline. It helps him, knowing how he would explain it to someone if they asked. Transforming his long, disjointed path into a clear narrative arc makes him feel like less of a failure, and reminds him that he had a real reason for running away. That it is not just in his head.

 _Toss. Catch_.

When he was 12, Patrick was allowed to stay home alone for the first time while his parents had a date night. Reveling in his newfound freedom, he had dared to watch one of the late night cable channels that he normally wasn’t allowed to watch. Velvet Goldmine was on. He was mesmerized. He’d never seen anything so overtly sexual. But it wasn’t just that. He’d never known men could be that way together. He’s seen the movie a dozen times since, but what he remembers most from that night is a feeling of excitement, of tantalizing possibility, and the beginnings of shame.

 _Toss. Catch_.

In college, during one of his and Rachel’s many off-agains, he’d been invited by two of his friends to be part of a threesome. He and Carrie and James spent a lot of time together sophomore year, hanging out in Carrie’s dorm room mostly, because she didn’t have a roommate. It was Carrie’s idea, the threesome; broached late one night when they were all a little high. James was game. _What’s college for, after all, if not a little experimentation?_ , he’d argued. Patrick had wanted it. So much. But he was terrified. Because he didn’t want Carrie, he wanted James. And what if that became obvious while they were....while they were doing things. Would James be freaked out? Would it destroy their friendship? Patrick said no, and the subject was never brought up again. A couple of years later, James came out as bi. That night, that lost opportunity, is one of Patrick’s biggest regrets.

 _Toss. Catch_.

He’d had a crush on a guy on his baseball team in high school.

 _Toss. Catch_.

He’d had a crush on a guy in his choir group in college.

 _Toss. Catch_.

This isn’t coming out of nowhere. It’s been there for a long time. It’s not new.

 _Knock knock_.

Patrick jumps. “Come in,” he says. Only when his voice croaks with disuse does he realize he’s been sitting alone in his room for hours.

“Patrick,” Ray starts, sounding much more subdued than usual, as if he’s afraid Patrick might bolt, or more likely kick him out. “I know you said you didn’t want to come tonight, but I really think it might do you some good. I’m cooking an early dinner now, and then I’ll be heading over to the town hall to meet up with the Jazzagals and the rest of the wassailers. You should join me. At least for dinner.”

Patrick doesn’t know if it is the hesitancy in Ray’s voice, or the fact that he actually knocked before coming into the room, or if it’s his own hunger, or downright loneliness that makes up his mind for him, but he finds himself agreeing. “Sure, Ray. Sounds fun.”

He’s sure his voice doesn’t actually project that he thinks it sounds like fun, but Ray’s smile returns instantly, so Patrick takes comfort in the fact that he has at least made someone happy today.

After an excellent Biryani, Ray and Patrick bundle up in their warmest coats and scarves and head out into the winter evening. It is a short walk to town hall (it’s a short walk anywhere in this town), and they arrive to find the main room bustling with frenetic energy and smelling like Christmas. A group of women are huddled at the front of the room doing warm-up vocal exercises, while Roland and Bob and a man in a suit, who Patrick hasn’t met yet, wrestle a giant urn of wassail and packages of paper coffee cups into a large wagon. 

Ray tugs Patrick towards the women as they wrap up their scales, and proceeds to introduce him to everyone with an exuberant, “Jazzagals! Have you met Patrick?” He already knows a couple of them - Twyla from the cafe and Roland' wife, Jocelyn - but the rest are new to him and Ray’s rapid-fire introductions fly past him too quickly to retain any names.

Soon, one of the Jazzagals, an elaborately dressed woman in an odd green wig is calling out for the “gentlemen” to “join our little coterie for a wee warm-up before we brave the elements for our peregrinations.” Patrick raises his eyebrows at Twyla who gives him a small amused smile in return, and they all gather to vocalize.

Once everyone is bundled up again, the group heads out into the dark evening. They take a right out of the town hall and head towards the Cafe. Jocelyn and the woman in the wig lead the way, with Roland and Bob pulling the wagon at the rear. Patrick finds himself in the middle of the group, with Twyla and a black woman he thinks Ray called Rhonda.

“So, where exactly are we going?” Patrick tries to sound enthusiastic, but he’s still participating begrudgingly, and frankly the whole thing is a little overwhelming.

“There’s a neighborhood up here to the left. It’s where Roland and Jocelyn live. That’s our destination this year.”

“Thanks, Rhonda,” Patrick says.

“It’s Ronnie,” the woman replies, glaring at him.

“Sorry. Ronnie. I uh, that was a lot of names, all at once. Sorry,” Patrick stammers.

“Mmmhmm,” Ronnnie mumbles. Patrick clears his throat and shuts up. He’s not in the mood to make nice.

Just past the Cafe, they turn left into a neighborhood. At the first house they come to, the group gathers in the yard and Jocelyn goes up to ring the doorbell. While they wait for someone to answer the door, Roland and the man in the suit start dispensing wassail. The door is opened by a middle-aged man who looks thrilled to see them. He calls back into the house for his wife and kids to come to the door. The man in the suit carries steaming cups of wassail up to the family as the wigged woman blows into a pitch pipe.

After two carols, the family claps for them and the group moves on to the next house, repeating the routine. Each time they stop, different people man the wassail wagon, and then take a break from the singing to drink. About halfway through the neighborhood, Twyla tugs his sleeve and hands him an empty cup. Apparently, it’s their turn. The two of them dispense wassail for the homeowners, then partake themselves. The warm liquid feels wonderful on Patrick’s throat, but the smell of cinnamon and cloves makes him nostalgic for Christmas at home.

By the time they make it through the neighborhood, Patrick is tired and cold and so very glad that this night is almost over so that he can go back to feeling sorry for himself, alone in his room at Ray’s.

“And now,” says the woman in the wig, who Patrick has heard called Moira, “to the motel for our own humble soiree!”

Everyone cheers and moves, en masse, on up the main street toward the town’s ramshackle motel. Patrick groans and looks for Ray. He feels rude just slipping away to go home without saying anything, but he really, really does not want to go to a party right now.

When he finally catches up to Ray, his housemate is talking to the man in the suit.

“Patrick!” Ray exclaims, “Have you met Johnny Rose yet? Mr. Rose, this is my tenant and employee, Patrick Brewer. He’s renting a room and some office space from me to do some consulting work, as well as helping me out with my many businesses. Isn’t that right, Patrick?”

“Well, Patrick,” Mr. Rose says, holding out a hand to shake, “it’s very nice to meet you. What sort of consulting work do you do?”

Patrick, ever polite, can’t not answer the question, so instead of making his excuses, he makes small talk with Johnny Rose all the way to the motel. Which is how he learns that Moira, in the wig, and Johnny, in the suit, are THE Roses, of Rose Video. He remembers the story from a couple of years ago. His mom sent him a link to an article about it since he’d worked at a Rose Video in high school. But before he can think of any questions to ask that wouldn’t be prying or inappropriate, they are at the motel in front of Room 7.

Patrick is wondering why they started with Room 7, and not one of the end rooms, when the door is flung open with a derisive, “Ugh, must you?”

Mr. Rose says, admonishingly, “Son, that’s no way to greet your mother and her friends,” at the same time that Mrs. Rose says, “Dayvid, why must you look like a disgruntled pelican on this revelrous occasion?”

But Patrick barely registers any of that. His mouth has gone dry and he’s forgotten he was ever cold or tired or wanting to go home. Because the man standing in the doorway - David - is a vision. And just like that, Patrick isn’t tired anymore.

It’s his turn at the wassail wagon, so he shakes himself out of his trance, reminds himself not to stare, and hurries to the wagon for a cup. The group is just starting on Adeste Fidelis as Patrick approaches David with the drink. David looks surprised at the offering, but if he doesn’t exactly smile, he at least drops the scowl as he takes the hot cup. Their hands brush, and despite his thick gloves, Patrick feels a little thrill at the touch.

Feeling bold, Patrick raises his own cup and taps it against David’s as if to toast, then backs away before he really makes a fool of himself. When he turns back, David is leaning against the door jamb, looking at him. Patrick can’t quite read the look, but it makes his stomach swoop and his breath catch. He’s suddenly very glad Ray talked him into wassailing tonight.

🖤💙🖤💙

As cold as it is outside, it is stifling in the small, adjoined motel rooms. Patrick finds himself backed into a corner as Bob tells him a convoluted tale about a bagel company, antivirus software, and someone named Gwen who may or may not be involved in an underground sex ring. He tips back the last of his beer - thank goodness someone thought to provide cold beverages - and excuses himself to Bob.

The drinks table is set up at the back of the smaller of the two rooms, the one with the twin beds. Patrick maneuvers his way through the crowd. As he walks through the door to the other room, he spots David, in animated conversation with a pretty blonde woman. He can’t make out what they are saying, but he can tell from the wild movement of David’s hands that they are arguing about something. Patrick, distracted by their argument, bumps into something solid. He is immediately aware of two things - the wet spot soaking through the front of his shirt and Ronnie glaring at him accusingly.

“Brewer, you spilled my drink,” she tells him.

“Sorry, Ronnie,” he replies. “Are you okay? Did you get any on you?”

“Lucky for you, no I didn’t. But you’d better watch your step,” she says, and Patrick mumbles an apology and grabs his beer.

He turns back around to find that David is no longer in the room. Given that he is soaked, and the only person he cared to talk to at this thing is gone, Patrick decides to head home for the night. Ray is between him and the coats, so he says a quick goodbye on his way to gather his things, then heads out the door into the cold night.

And there, sitting on the trunk of an ancient town car, his back to the motel, is David. Patrick knows that he should just walk away. He is sweaty from the heat of the crowded party, and his shirt is soaked through and freezing cold beneath his coat, but something about David excites him in a way he has never felt before. So he ignores his discomfort and let’s his legs carry him across the parking lot.

The crunching of gravel attracts David’s attention and for a moment Patrick feels pinned down by the intensity of his gaze. But then David’s mouth quirks to the side and he says, “Leaving so soon, then?”

Patrick answers quickly, before he can overthink it. “Well, I thought you’d left, so what was there to stay for?”

He can feel his cheeks heating up at his own brazenness, but David laughs, so maybe he hasn’t embarrassed himself beyond redemption. Then David scootches over and pats the trunk next to him in invitation, and Patrick can’t control his smile as he hops up onto the car. He can feel the heat radiating off of David, can feel the solid press of his shoulder and thigh, even through all the layers of fabric the winter chill necessitates.

“So, what are you doing out here, instead of in there with everyone else?” Patrick asks, teeth chattering.

“I think you just answered your own question there,” David replies with a smirk. “Are you okay? You seem awfully cold for someone wearing a coat that puffy. And more importantly, why do you smell like a frat party?”

“Ah, well, I may have spilled someone’s drink all over myself right before I left.”

“Mmm, so my disappearance wasn’t really the reason you left,” David says, mock offended.

“OK, maybe it wasn’t the only reason, but it was definitely _a_ reason,” Patrick quips back, grinning.

Instead of responding, David jumps down from the car and heads towards a room further down the motel. Before Patrick has time to panic too much that he has somehow said the wrong thing, David calls back over his shoulder, “Are you coming, or not?”

Patrick scrambles down from the car and follows David, wishing the weather was warmer so he could enjoy the view a little more. Not that the view is bad. David’s wool pea coat fits him like a glove. But it is also long enough to cover what Patrick is sure is a spectacular ass.

As Patrick catches up to David at the door to Room 10, David turns to him, hesitant for the first time all evening. “Um, please don’t judge me based on what you are about to see,” he says, scrunching his eyes up and leaning his head back.

He puts the key in the lock and opens the door for Patrick to walk in first, reaching around to flip the light switch. The first thing Patrick’s mind registers is the heart-shaped headboard on the very red bed, then the bright and inexplicable glare of a disco ball, and finally the dozens of storage containers along the back wall.

“What is this place?” Patrick asks, eyes darting around the room, then landing back on David who is leaning against the now closed door.

“This is, um, we call it the love room?” His voice goes high at the end like it’s a question. “It’s uh, it’s where I keep most of my clothes,” he gestures around the room, indicating the storage containers.

Patrick nods, but still isn’t sure what they are doing in this surreal room. “And we’re here because?” he asks.

“Because your teeth are chattering and you’re shivering, so… strip!” As soon as the words are out David begins backtracking. “I mean, um, I don’t mean you should strip so much as we should get you out of those wet clothes? Which, now that I’ve said it I realize that’s not really any better…,” he trails off. Then after a pause, he says more forcefully, “I’m sure I have something you can wear that will be more comfortable, and warmer, than a wet shirt.”

“Thank you, David,” Patrick said as he begins stripping off his thick coat, “this is really nice of you.”

“Ha, well, I don’t think anyone has ever called me nice before," David answers, then add suspiciously, "Wait, how do you know my name?

“Oh, uh, your mom said your name when we arrived at the hotel. Something about a pelican, wasn't it?" Patrick smirked and David scowled. "I'm Patrick, by the way."

"Patrick," David says, like he's testing the name. It makes Patrick's heart race, the way his name sounds in David's mouth.

"But, for the record, I didn’t call you nice,” Patrick says, smiling as he unbuttons his cold, wet shirt, “I said you’re doing a nice thing. It’s not really the same thing.”

“Uh huh, I see,” David’s grin is tucked into his cheek, but it’s there, like a prize Patrick has won.

David turns to the storage bins and starts to rummage through them, looking for something. He pulls out a black undershirt and a black sweater that looks softer than anything Patrick has ever owned, and lays them on the satin sheets of the bed. Then he ducks into the bathroom and comes back with a thin white terrycloth towel.

As Patrick takes the towel from David’s hand, their fingers brush. Patrick’s eyes snap up to David’s and David pulls away as if he’s been shocked.

“Thanks,” Patrick practically whispers as he dries his torso. He is still shivering, even more so now that he is naked from the waist up. He is also impossibly turned on, and while part of him hopes David doesn’t notice, another part of him wants to take his time drying off, to keep feeling David’s eyes on him.

But he is much too cold, and the sweater looks much too warm, for him to delay dressing any longer. So he hands the damp towel to David, who is leaning in the bathroom doorway.

“Give me your shirt, too,” David says, “we can lay it across the radiator to dry. It’ll still smell, but at least you won’t freeze to death.”

Patrick does, then picks up the black t-shirt from the bed. He raises his arms over his head to pull the shirt on, and as he pulls it down he looks over to find David’s eyes on him. It sends another shiver through him.

David must interpret it as Patrick being cold (which, of course, he still is), because he crosses the room then and picks up the sweater, saying, “Here, let me help. This sweater probably cost more than your whole wardrobe and you’re shaking so much you’re likely to damage it getting it on.”

The words and tone are borderline rude, but his expression is soft, and Patrick goes weak at the knees as he dips his head for David to put the sweater on. He allows himself to be bundled into the warm wool, gently, left arm first, then right. Once the sweater is on, Patrick expects David to pull away, but he doesn’t. Instead, he runs his hands up and down Patrick’s arms as if to warm them.

Patrick looks from David’s eyes to his lips and back again, and then David is leaning in, and ( _oh god they are going to kiss and Patrick doesn’t know if he’s ready, he just met this guy, he knows nothing about him, oh god_ ). Patrick takes a step back, the backs of his knees hitting the bed so that he winds up sitting on the edge of the mattress. Smooth.

He only notices that his hands are covering his face when he is startled by the sound of the television. He looks up, then, to see David holding the remote and looking at him. Patrick expects to see pity or disgust, but David looks…nervous? uncertain? Patrick’s not sure.

“I’m not letting you walk out of here in my McQueen, so…you’re stuck with me for a while. I thought we could watch some TV until your shirt is dry,” David says by way of explanation.

Patrick knows it’s a deflection, and he’s thankful for it. He tries for a laugh, but it comes out choked. He feels the need to explain himself, to apologize for making things awkward. But his mouth won’t form the words, so instead, he says, “Aren’t you a little young to have borrowed a sweater from Steve McQueen?”

The resulting scoff and eye roll make Patrick’s stomach flip. David is fun to tease. He hopes he hasn’t ruined his chances. He hangs onto that hope as he scoots up to sit at the head of the bed, leaning back against one half of the heart, and placing the satin-covered pillow on his lap. Then he looks at David and pats the spot next to him in invitation.

David looks around, as if he hopes the room will magic a chair into existence, before he nods and gingerly sits on the bed. Patrick tries not to laugh as David ungracefully scoots himself into position beside Patrick. He supposes he probably looked just as ridiculous when he did it. Patrick is still smiling, though, when David has settled in beside him and looks over at him.

“So,” David says softly, “what shall we watch?”

“Hockey?” Patrick says, because he wants to see how David will react. The cocked-eyebrow glare David gives him is totally worth it.

“Honestly, we get three channels here, so the options are very limited.”

“I have the Netflix app on my phone. We could watch something on there,” Patrick offers.

“We could do that,” David answers, voice still soft, uncertain.

They pull up the Great British Baking Show Holiday Special and soon they are laughing at Noel and Sandi. For a little while Patrick forgets the awkwardness and embarrassment and just enjoys himself.

But then things get awkward again.

Because the screen is tiny, they are each holding an end of it, so that the phone is positioned between them. As a result, they are angled toward each other, each with their weight on one elbow.

Which would be fine if not for the slippery satin sheets.

Halfway through the signature bake, Patrick realizes that they are significantly more horizontal than they were at the start of the show. Once he notices, he can’t un-notice it, so he does the only sensible thing he can think of. He starts to giggle.

“What are you-,” David starts as he looks over at Patrick, but stops with an “oh” when he realizes the position they are now in. He starts to scramble, to pull away, and Patrick realizes that it is now or never. He’s not going to let another chance pass him by; he might not get another one.

Patrick reaches out and grab’s David’s forearm. “Wait. Please.”

David stops and turns to face him, letting himself slide back down beside Patrick.

Patrick takes a deep breath and speaks, haltingly. “I’m sorry about before. I…I really wanted to kiss you. I just…haven’t…before. With a guy, I mean.”

David doesn’t speak, just looks at Patrick like he’s a puzzle to be solved, so he continues, “I don’t mean…. Look, I’m gay,” at that he pauses for a moment because holy shit, he’s never actually said that out loud before and it feels weird. Good, but weird. “I’m gay,” he repeats, “I just only figured it out recently? So I’ve never…,” he trails off, waving his hand between them, hoping that will communicate what he is trying to say.

David’s face has gone soft around the edges, but he still doesn’t say anything. Patrick is getting nervous now, so he plows on, “And I know we barely know each other, and we just met tonight, but you’re gorgeous and I’ve really had fun tonight and-.”

“Patrick,” David interrupts, “shut up.” And then David is leaning in and Patrick is suddenly overwhelmed by sensation. The firm press of David’s lips against his, David’s stubble, David’s hand cupping his jaw, David, David, David. It is perfect. It is better than anything Patrick could have imagined.

He wants more, so he flicks his tongue over David’s lips and feels him open up to him. The kiss changes into something more insistent, a little dirtier. Patrick loves it. He feels like he’s on fire with it.

Still, he wishes he’d given in to the kiss earlier, when they were standing, because here, lying down in red satin sheets, having the best kiss of his life with this Adonis of a man, is a lot to handle. And when David rolls them so that he is half on top of Patrick, and suddenly Patrick can _feel him_ , he realizes he’s in over his head.

“Wait,” he says. And David stops immediately and pulls back, removing his lips and his hands and his weight from Patrick completely.

“Oh god, I’m sorry,” David says quickly, hands gesturing wildly. “I pushed. You just told me you’d never done this, and I went and pushed and ruined it.” He tilted his head back, covering his face with his hands.

Patrick sits up quickly and puts his hands on David’s wrists to pry his hands away from his face. “Look at me,” he says. “You haven’t ruined anything. I just…need to go a little slower. I’m new to this.”

“Slower,” David parrots.

“Slower,” Patrick repeats, and takes David’s hands in his own. “Listen, can I take you on a date tomorrow? Maybe dinner?”

“Yeah,” David breathes, “I think I’d like that.”

“Good,” Patrick responds. He hands David his phone and David puts his number in, then texts himself so that they will have each other’s numbers. Then Patrick leans in to give David one more kiss before getting up. He retrieves his shirt from the radiator. As tempting as it is to give David a little strip tease, Patrick really does need to take this slowly, so he takes the shirt into the bathroom and closes the door to change.

When he comes back out, David is sitting on the edge of the bed with his coat on. He stands up and meets Patrick in the middle of the room, draping his arms over Patrick’s shoulders. Patrick’s hands settle on David’s waist and it feels…right.

Patrick leans up to kiss David and, oh, kissing someone taller than him is really nice. He’s excited to do more of that. For now, though, he says, “Thank you, David. Today was a really terrible day before I met you. I’m glad I let Ray talk me into going wassailing.”

“That’s very sweet,” David replies, cheeks a little flushed.

Patrick pulls his coat on and zips it up. Then, even though it’s only a few steps to the door, he reaches out to take David’s hand.

Outside, it is even colder than it was before, and the noise from the party two doors down has quieted. Reluctant to let the night end, Patrick tugs David’s hand, pulling him into a final kiss before he has to leave.

Far too soon he makes himself pull back and say, “Goodnight, David.”

David gives him a lopsided smile and replies, “Goodnight, Patrick. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He turns, then, and walks back to his room. Patrick watches him go, sees him look back over as he opens his door to give Patrick another small smile before he goes in.

Patrick walks home, too happy to feel the bite of the cold air.


End file.
